


The Foundling

by Cattraine



Series: Supernatural Texas Roadhouse Blues [1]
Category: Magnificent Seven (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Babies, Crossover, Dark Comedy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-20
Updated: 2011-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-22 21:18:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cattraine/pseuds/Cattraine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s hard to find if you’re deliberately looking for it, but easy to locate if you’re seriously lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Foundling

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a one shot but has shown increased signs of growing into another damned alternate universe. I obviously have no control. Right now it apparently wants to be a trilogy and God help me, the Dark Angels are dropping in.

It’s hard to find if you’re deliberately looking for it, but easy to locate if you’re seriously lost. It’s deep in the Texas panhandle off Old Highway 16, set off a ways from the main road, well south of San Antonio. It’s really easy to miss unless you know the signs to look for, the white slash of an chalked arrow on the face of a boulder, a twisted old hanging oak at the turn-off. If you’re looking for it you had better have a damned good reason and your facts in hand because the Winchester brothers don’t tolerate fools well. The Feds have heard rumors of its existence for years, but have yet to locate it. The Law tends to get…lost in those parts. The Roadhouse is totally off the national grid and it’s no accident that the nearest town (if you are headed in the right direction) is a tiny place called Realitos.

**********************************************************

The morning sun sliced neatly through the slit in the battered curtains directly into a sleeping Dean Winchesters right eye. Its malignant presence was instantly felt and he cracked it open to glare at the window. Goddamn Sam and his need for fresh air and sunshine and his constant fiddling with the curtains. He reached blindly across the big Mission style bed to vengefully poke his brother awake, only to discover him already gone. A distant clatter from the kitchen indicated his whereabouts.

Dean sat up with a groan, and ran a hand through his short, silver-flecked hair. He stretched and grunted in satisfaction at the various pops of loosening joints and scratched sleepily at his stomach. The bite marks along his jaw, shoulder and collarbones still tingled. He was naked, Sam having relieved him of his clothing the previous night in an impressive display of jealous possessiveness after Dean had spent the evening strategically flirting with a local biker chick half his age. He grinned at the happy memory and the sight of his shorts dangling off the lazily swirling ceiling fan. He discovered yet another bite mark on his left ass cheek and scratched it blissfully. Some things were worth the trouble if it put Sammy in a manhandling mood and set on indulging his biting kink.

His brother kept him close since he had waded into Hell and rescued him, and Dean would never admit in a thousand years that he liked the side benefits. Still, he hadn’t emerged unscathed and he had the nightmares and scars to prove it. He wiggled the toes of his bad leg thoughtfully, testing its mobility, and cursing when he realized that it had stiffened overnight and would require his knee brace. Damned hellhounds. Dean had never been able to eye a dog with anything but suspicion since. Sighing, he bent and dug around in the clutter under the bed for it, shoving aside a shotgun and a stack of gun magazines and grinning at the sound of cursing and banging from the kitchen below accompanied by the telltale stench of burning bacon.

It was going on almost twenty odd years now since they opened the roadhouse with Bobby and Ellen’s help, and Sam still couldn’t cook worth a damn. Dean kept an industrial strength fire extinguisher in the kitchen for those times when Sam suddenly wandered off to check a reference text, or got so engrossed in his new palm computer that he forgot about the food. He had nearly burned the place down twice in the past six months. Thank God it was mainly constructed of adobe, iron and slate and that Lenore was the night cook. Her mate Leon made a hell of a bouncer. All it cost them was the use of an old Airstream hidden deep in a shady grove of cottonwoods well down the dirt road behind their property and a slightly anemic herd of free-range cows.

After a quick shower, and a longer pause in front of the mirror to preen a bit and scowl at the scar across his jaw, and his silver slashed temples, Dean pulled on an ancient pair of threadbare jeans and slid his feet into a pair of battered moccasins to gimp downstairs in. It was too early to open yet, so he didn’t bother to dress further. The bikers and hunters who frequented the Roadhouse knew better than to show up before noon. He squinted at the dresser and decided to forget his glasses as usual, and limped down the narrow wooden staircase, absently fingering the sigils carved into the banister and scratching sleepily at the bold black whorls of the tribal tattoos that curved over his broad shoulders and biceps as he went. The roadhouse was well over a hundred years old and built like the fortress it was, with adobe walls over three feet thick etched and painted with protective sigils, iron, and rune-reinforced doors and windows, and sat smack dab in the middle of a salt flat. There were Devils Traps painted or carved above or under every entrance. Protective wards on the roof kept the building invisible to any airborne surveillance, either from the supernatural or the Feds.

Demons stupid enough to gain entry never left.

He meandered down the back hall to the spacious kitchen, scuffling along the cool tiles of the floor, still half asleep despite his shower. Dean had spent most of his life on a nocturnal schedule and his body was accustomed to it. Semi-retirement did little to alter the ingrained habits of a lifetime of hunting creatures that made the night their home. He leaned against the entrance to the kitchen, green eyes softening at the sight of Sam at the stove, absently flipping bacon with one hand and squinting through still floppy bangs and silver rimmed reading glasses at a demonology text in the other. The scarred kitchen table held a haphazard stack of books and yellowing manuscripts as well as the Priority box they’d arrived in.  
Samuel Winchester was the Head Librarian of the Hunting world, a position inherited from Bobby Singer along with most of his books. It had become a habit for hunters to send him any useful books or occult items they came across for safekeeping. The hidden half of the root cellar of the roadhouse held not only a temperature-controlled room holding ancient, valuable grimoires, but a warded vault containing various curse boxes that held dangerous artifacts as well. Sam had a knack for making the boxes. If he wanted to trap something, it stayed put, and heaven help any fool who tried open one without Sam’s explicit instructions, because his booby traps were infinitely more lethal than his father’s.  
Also, unlike his father, Sam made ruthless use of any useful information, be it charm or spell or incantation. He thought nothing of contacting witches, hoodoo men or sorcerers for information on spells or herbs. When covens gathered, Sam Winchester’s name was whispered with respect by many--and fear by others. He was Hunter, Hellraiser and Demon slayer all wrapped into one lethal six-foot four package. He had walked into Hell and carried his brother out after slaying the demon that had claimed Dean’s soul. There was no one else alive who could boast of that. Most intelligent supernatural creatures now made it a habit to avoid the Winchester brothers.

Like Ellen’s old roadhouse, theirs was a central gathering place for hunters and information seekers, and Sam had inherited Bobby’s position as the Go -To Guy when the supernatural shit hit the fan in the mundane world. Bobby and Ellen were retired now, happily settled together in a remote cove in the Florida Keys. If anyone needed to contact Bobby they had to go through the Winchesters first; Bobby deserved a peaceful retirement. Sam and Dean made it a point to visit them at least once a year. Sam usually sunned himself and caught up on his recreational reading and Dean dabbled his toes in the water and cheerfully volunteered to rub sunscreen on any bikini-clad coed who needed it. Occasionally Sam wrestled him down and rubbed sunscreen onto him, slathering his freckles despite his protests. They were the only family the Winchester brothers had left, and Bobby Singer had forgotten more occult lore than most scholars learned in a lifetime.

Dean slipped into the kitchen, automatically dodging the paw that darted down from the top of the fridge to whack at the back of his head. Cannonball considered the kitchen his domain and Dean a rival and bacon thief at best. Dean slid neatly under Sam’s arm and relieved him of the spatula to deftly flip the bacon, even as he lifted his head to happily nuzzle his brother’s freshly shaven jaw. Even at the ass crack of dawn, his anal geek of a brother was as neat as a pin, newly ironed button down shirt and all, his clean scent as irresistible as ever. Dean rooted happily under a smiling Sam’s ear, breathing in the familiar smell of the one person who had always been ‘home’ and ‘love’ to him. Sam chuckled and dropped a kiss on his mouth.

“Good morning to you too!”

“Umm.” Dean hummed back, busy now nibbling a tender earlobe.

He sat the frying pan safely aside and they got busy for a few minutes, exchanging happy kisses and nuzzles. It had been almost twenty years since Dean’s deal and they still couldn’t get enough of each other. Sam cupped the back of Dean’s head in one big hand, the other hand on his hip keeping him close as he devoured his mouth. Dean was his, his one true thing in a world of uncertainty. He would never take him for granted again. After a few minutes they disentangled with soft sighs and Dean took over the stove while a pink-cheeked, goofily grinning Sam returned to the table and his current shipment.

Dean laid the bacon out to drain on a paper towel and deftly began cracking eggs into the pan.

“Anything good?” he asked.

“A few interesting texts on Enochian magic. A few pages that could be genuine bits of one of John Dee’s journals. A couple of pages that I have no clue about. At least there’s nothing from Llewellyn Press this time.” Sam joked.

Although it was amazingly annoying how often a genuine workable spell or hex turned up in a generic Magic for Dummies book sold in any new age shop to be purchased by any wannabe witches and wizards. It made life interesting, although Sam was getting tired of exorcising mischievous spirits from New Age bookstores. The last time they had had to rescue a novice witch from her own magic Dean had ended up sporting fairy wings for a week. Fortunately they had been tiny and easily covered with his jacket because he had bitched endlessly.

Dean hummed agreement as he dished up breakfast, rescuing the toast from their geriatric toaster just before it started to incinerate. They ate in companionable silence, Sam’s nose back in his books and Dean smirking at the scowling cat perched on top of the ancient, humming fridge. Afterwards he took his plate, left it to soak in the sink and took a second cup of coffee with him on his morning perimeter patrol, swatting back at Cannonball as he left, fully aware that the fat black and white cat would be sharing Sam’s bacon from a forbidden perch on the table before he was halfway down the hall.

He strolled out of the living quarters into the public area of the roadhouse, stopping behind the long, antique oak bar to check the corkboard for any notes that Lenore might have left. Finding only a note that they were getting low on Jack Daniels, he added it to his mental liquor shopping list and headed down the bar, giving the bedraggled, snoring pile of gray fur coiled on the end of the bar a wide berth. Fluffy was another of Sam’s damned cats, which he tended to accumulate fairly easily, despite Dean’s often loud declarations that what they really needed was a good dog, not another hell-spawned feline. Dean had decided long ago that it was half bobcat and half demon. The damned creature weighed at least forty pounds, had battle notches rimming both ears and one evil, yellow eye. No sane dog or coyote had had the nerve to venture onto Winchester property in years. The last ‘toy’ Fluffy had carried home for Sam had been a six-foot long diamondback rattlesnake and Dean had seen him eat scorpions like candy.

His reflection trailed him in the long mirror behind the bar as he automatically checked the windows and weapon sites hidden in the spacious room. He paused to give the not-quite-empty sigil-encrusted whisky bottle set securely behind iron and safety glass in a icon niche above the bar a wink and smirk. For a second he imagined he could see a pair of angry demonic eyes glaring back down at him, and he bared his teeth in something not even close to a smile.

“Morning Ruby. How’s tricks?”

There was a definite, violent swirl of murky blackness in the bottle in reaction. Sam had ruthlessly forced the demon to help him recover Dean from Hell, then immediately sealed the lying, manipulative creature in a place where it could never plague them again. Ruby had been more than a bit surprised to learn that one of Sam’s newly-honed demon-inherited powers included reading ‘her’ mind. Her sweet little plan of ruling Hell as Sam’s consort had been neatly nipped in the bud. Dean made a point of checking on it everyday, just to taunt and needle it, much as it had tormented him while he was imprisoned in Hell.

He gave the bottle one last amiable nod and headed on over to unlock the front door, glancing out the small glass bolt hole set in the heavy iron bound door as he did. Its safe green color remained unchanged, so he went ahead and lifted the heavy bar that held it closed, then lifted the old iron key ring off its hook beside the door and unlocked the three reinforced locks, murmuring a corresponding charm under his breath as he did. Thus lulled into a false sense of security by these precautions, what he discovered on the front porch came as a complete shock, causing him to take an involuntary step back, hair on his nape rising, as he automatically groped the back waistband of his jeans for a gun. A wicker laundry basket, well padded with soft blue blankets sat innocently at his feet. The contents blinked sleepily up at him and gurgled.

Dean blinked and gaped for a minute, panicked brain automatically calculating who? When? Where? He cast a bewildered look around for the baby’s mama before indignation set in with a vengeance, as he bent over the basket to inspect the contents and realized that the infant within bore a distinct resemblance to his brother, right down to the dimples and soft brown curls. He had been true to his lover, but that sneaky little bitch had two-timed him with…he bent closer and stared. Were those…horns?

The owner of the tiny black points poking through the fine hair cooed happily at him and grinned toothlessly before grasping the barbed tip of the wee, wiggling tail that suddenly popped out from under the blanket and gumming it ruthlessly. There was even a note included in the basket, penned in flowing calligraphy in a script Dean didn’t recognize. Dean’s eyes narrowed at his tiny nemesis and he poked it gingerly, just to be sure it wasn’t a hallucination. Just who, or what, in the Hell had Sam been screwing around with without his knowledge in the past sixteen months or so? Jesus fuck.

He felt an angry flush surge up his face and did the only thing he could. He put his hands on his hips, tilted his head back and bellowed for his brother.

“Sam! Get your narrow ass out here!”

**********************************************************

An hour later a miserable, still-dumbfounded Sam sat at the kitchen table, the demon baby cradled gingerly on his lap. They stared doubtfully at each other and Sam flinched at the loud slam of the back door, and the powerful rumble of the Impala’s short block engine that followed as Dean pulled out of the garage, gunning the big car out onto the highway in a sure sign of true Winchester temper, heading north, probably towards San Antonio. His brother--his lover— was irate, and Sam couldn’t blame him. Dean only took his beloved car out rarely now, he usually drove their tricked out truck. Sam could only hope that Dean came back home soon, so they could figure out what the hell was going on.

The baby was his, he could sense it— feel it in his blood, in his bones, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out how or when it had been conceived. To his knowledge, he had never cheated on Dean, not since they became lovers years ago. The note had offered little explanation; Sam didn’t recognize the script, much less the language it was written in.  
He pinched the bridge of his nose against an impending headache. This was something he sure as hell didn’t want to call Bobby about.  
Why was it that whenever life seemed to be going smoothly for them something inevitably happened to fuck it up? Sam hadn’t felt so helpless in years and he didn’t like the feeling at all. He didn’t want to even imagine Dean not coming back.  
The baby cooed softly up at him, big brown eyes locked on his face and small fingers curled in a surprisingly strong grip around his thumb. Sam gave his son a tentative smile. Everything would work out. It had to. He had already lost so much to this dangerous life. It was about time that he gained something instead.

**********************************************************

It was over 48 hours, a half dozen unanswered messages to Dean, a Closed for Repairs sign, and a frantic Internet crash course in infant care later before Sam heard the familiar rumble of the Impala pulling into the back parking lot. It was with great effort that Sam refrained from ditching the baby he was feeding to meet his brother, and he forced himself to remain seated at the kitchen table, eyes glued to the back door. Still it seemed forever before the screen door creaked open and Dean stepped inside hefting a crate of liquor. Apparently he had used his absence for the monthly stock up trip as well as to think.

Dean set the case on a back counter and turned to face Sam. He had his impassive game face on, and Sam’s heart sank. Dean was already distancing himself. It had taken Sam years of effort before Dean had believed that Sam actually wanted a life with him, years before he learned to trust and relax enough to really believe that Sam wasn’t going to eventually abandon him for a normal life that included a wife and children—the white picket fence life. Now all that hard-earned trust was shot to hell over something Sam had no control over and he had no idea how to fix things. All he could do was stare hungrily at his brother, his heart in his eyes.

Dean sighed and rubbed tiredly at his face. He hadn’t slept much in the past couple of days.

“Turn off ‘the eyes’ Sam.” He took a deep breath and folded his arms across his chest, in an unconsciously defensive position as he met his brother’s hopeful gaze square on.

“So, I’m thinking Trickster or Demon. What do you think?” He arched a brow at Sam.

Sam gave a relieved sigh, as hope surged through him. Dean was talking, he wasn’t running away. He stammered out an answer; “I don’t know Dean. Maybe Fey? The only person that I’ve been with in years has been you; you’re the only one I want to be with. “

He looked pleadingly at his brother, shifting the now sleepy baby against his dishtowel-draped shoulder and patting it gingerly on the back. The little one obliged with a loud burp, small tail twitching through the hole Sam had snipped in his diaper.

Dean smiled at the sight and sighed as he took a seat at the table next to Sam. He held out his hands.

“Lemme see him.”

Sam smiled tentatively and handed the baby over. Dean took the child, handling him with a ease that Sam envied—Sam still felt certain every time he picked the baby up that he was going to drop him on his head, horns and all— settling him in the crook of his arm. The baby cooed softly and dimpled at him, small fists and tail waving happily. Dean returned the smile, eyes pensive as he examined the child gently. He touched the tip of a tiny horn, and then used a finger to gently draw a lower lip down and trace small gums. He tilted the babe to show Sam where two tiny fangs were popping through.

“Good thing you’re not breast-feeding Sammy.”

He continued his gentle examination, checking the small, sturdy body for any identifying birthmarks or sigils, counted wee toes and ended with a tickle of the small tummy and smoothing of silky, ruffled curls. The baby gurgled happily up at him with a wide, drooling grin, dark eyes locked on his face. Dean sighed. There was no doubt in his mind that the kid was Sam’s. It looked exactly like Sam had at that age, right down to the goofy smile. He looked over at his brother, who was looking hopefully at him.

“Looks like he’s about seven or eight months old, and healthy human wise. Dunno about the other.” He shot a bemused look at the wee tail that coiled around his fingers and ran a curious thumb over the forked end. It appeared to be completely prehensile, like a little monkey’s.

Sam spoke hastily, as though he was afraid Dean wouldn’t listen. “He’s a good baby Dean, he only cries if he’s hungry or wet.”

Dean gave him a small smile. “So were you, Sammy. Have you named him yet?” He made no move to hand the baby back to its father, settling him comfortably in his lap. The little one gave a pink yawn and settled easily in for a nap, blinking in sleepy content up at Dean, thumb in his mouth.

Sam shook his head. “No. I’ve been trying to translate the note that was in the basket, but I don’t even recognize the alphabet, much less the language it’s written in.” He gave a frustrated snort and reached for the note that was propped against the napkin holder in the middle of the table and handed it to his brother. Staring at the damned thing for the past couple of days and digging through his reference texts had accomplished exactly nothing, much to his annoyance.

“There wasn’t anything else in the basket except for a few clothes, a binky, a bottle and a few diapers.” He had turned the damned thing nearly inside out searching frantically for some identification. He took a deep breath and continued, earnest eyes on his brother. “ I think he’s mine Dean…I feel he is. I just have no explanation as to how it happened without my knowing.” He was anxious that Dean understand ; everything hinged on that. His brother nodded thoughtfully, eyes on the now-sleeping baby, note held absently in one hand. He raised sharp eyes to Sam’s face.

“I know you didn’t knowingly cheat on me Sam. Once I calmed down I realized that we haven’t slept apart in the past year. We live in each other’s pockets, and the last time we were outside of our own wards for any real length of time was last year when we visited Bobby. We did sleep on the beach a couple of nights, but we slept together. That’s the only time the thing could have gotten to you…maybe a succubus used your dreams or something. I don’t know.”

He sighed and dropped his eyes back to the sleeping infant, and gently pushed a wispy ringlet out of long lashes. Sam leaned forward, big hands clasped nervously between his thighs.

“I ran some tests on him, Dean. Some spell work and scrying. There’s nothing evil inside him. It’s just surface…” He indicated the tiny horns and tail with a small grimace. The poor kid was going to have to be home schooled his entire life unless they came up with a good, concealing glamour to hide those.

Dean tilted his head, eyes thoughtful, as something clicked together in his mind.

“That may be why he’s here Sam.”

“What do you mean?” Sam stared at his brother. Dean was onto something, he could see it in his face, and Dean was seldom wrong when a hunch came together. Dean spoke slowly, sounding out his thoughts.

“If I didn’t know for a fact that we had Ruby sealed in a bottle over the bar, I’d swear it was one of her little plans gone awry; and Lilith is dead, you wasted her when you pulled me out of Hell. Meg is still MIA…but they all had one thing in common, Sam. They were females and they all wanted to consort with you for some reason or the other, either fuck you or share your power if you decided to take over a chunk of Hell. Maybe we have another player in the game. Remember, demons have all the time in the world. Azazel fucked around with entire generations of families, tweaking the bloodlines trying to produce human kids with demonic powers, his ‘children’. Maybe we have someone here who’s kept below the radar, but decided to try a power play. You ditched the Anti-Christ gig and have the power to fry almost any demon that pisses you off. They know that. They also know that we’re…partners.” He grimaced at Sam’s wide grin at that. Sam was such a girl sometimes. “What if we have a female who wanted to ‘inherit’ some of your power? I imagine being the mother to your heir would carry some clout in the demonic world, especially if the kid inherited your power.”

Sam nodded slowly; it was making sense. That was something a succubus would try, stealing his seed if she couldn’t openly be-spell and seduce him, and female demons could be infinitely more subtle and patient when it came to diabolical plans. He raised bright eyes to his brother’s waiting face.

“But one thing went wrong in her little plan. My baby is human inside.” He dropped his eyes to his small son’s sleeping face, smiling at the care with which Dean cradled him.

Dean nodded. “Yahtzee. Baby boy here threw a monkey wrench into the whole plan; he’s a Winchester through and through. There’s nothing evil about him.”

He spoke decisively and met Sam’s bright smile with one of his own. He smirked at the thought of just how pissed the demon mama must have been to discover that her heir held no power whatsoever, completely thwarting her plans. She had apparently kept the babe past six months to see if they materialized. Then he sobered, as he stood and placed the sleeping baby carefully back in his basket on the table. It was a good thing she had decided to try and get some revenge by disrupting Sam’s home life by dropping the infant off on their doorstep. She could have just as easily killed him and left the small corpse there instead for Sam to find. He tossed the note back on the table and stepped back and slapped his hands together briskly.

“You wanna help me unload the car? I, umm, stopped at Wal-Mart and Goodwill and picked up some baby stuff.” Embarrassed, he looked away and scratched the nape of his neck. The next moment, he gave a girly squeak of outrage as Sam wrapped long octopus arms around him and hauled him close for a hug. He manfully ignored Sam’s wet eyes and muttered, “Thanks Dean!” and gruffly patted him on the back before disentangling himself.

“Yeah, well, whoever she is, her little plan didn’t work. Bad things happen if we separate. We learned that years ago, and we’re too damned old to fall for that shit again.”

Sam couldn’t keep the megawatt grin off his face as he happily followed Dean outside to the Impala. His big brother, his lover, was awesome and always would be. The grin just grew brighter and he wisely said nothing at Dean’s pink face as the trunk and backseat disgorged a wealth of baby gear. Diapers, formula, jars of juice and food, teething biscuits, bottles, a complete changing kit including wipes, powder and lotion, a playpen, a bouncy seat, a baby carrying sling, a baby monitor and a large box of used baby clothes in various sizes, with a soft stuffed elephant perched on top. Dean had thrown in a few groceries and another crate of liquor as camouflage, but it had clearly been a baby supply run.

His brother was big old softie when it came to kids.

Sam carried the box of clothes upstairs to their bedroom while Dean put away the liquor and groceries. He cleared out a top drawer in the bureau as temporary space until they could clean out the box room down the hall for use as a nursery, carefully examining and folding each small garment and grinning at the tiny socks, Metallica tee shirt and wee black boots he found. He hissed with pleasure when he found several used childcare books tucked in the bottom of the box, and grabbed up the copy of ‘What to Expect the First Year’, the Metallica tee and a small pair of denim overalls to take back downstairs with him.

As he padded down the hall, he heard Dean’s soft hum from the kitchen and he paused at the threshold to peek inside. Dean was stirring a pot on the stove with one hand and holding the now wide-awake baby on his hip with the other. The little one was watching with wide, bright eyes everything that Dean did, while happily gumming the tip of his tail. As he watched Dean, paused and sprinkled a pinch of herbs from a jar over the stove into the pot, explaining to the watching infant that good seasoning made for good beef stew. Baby gurgled in agreement. Sam felt a soft grin spread over his face. He couldn’t seem to contain it, he was so happy. He had his lover and now he had a son. What could have been a tragedy had somehow, miraculously become a blessing.

Dean turned and waved a spoon at him.

“Hey Sam, take the kiddo for a minute, I kind of have my hands full.”

Sam took his baby, planting a kiss on the soft cheek and grimacing at Dean’s next words.

“Might want to change him Sam. I think he just took a crap.”

Sighing, he carried the baby down the hall to the laundry room and the makeshift changing table he had set up earlier. Dean had piled the changing kit and diapers on the nearby washing machine and it only took a few minutes to change him and slip the wiggly tail through the slit that Sam cut in the new diaper. Sam popped the tee over his head and arms, but frowned at the overalls. He didn’t really want to randomly cut a hole in those. He decided to take the time later to neatly cut and sew a reinforced opening there, so the small, surprisingly strong tail didn’t completely rip the ass out.

Baby cooed and gurgled happily up at him during the whole process. He really was a good kid, and, Sam suspected, smart as a whip. He also needed a name ASAP. They couldn’t just keep calling him Baby. Frowning thoughtfully he carried the boy back into the kitchen. The stew was already smelling great, and as he watched Dean slid a tray of buttered rolls into the oven, then turned and began to clear the table, neatly setting Sam’s research and Baby’s basket aside onto a counter as he began to set the table with his usual brisk efficiency. There was even a fresh bottle of formula set up in the warmer plugged in near the stove, and a couple of jars of food waiting.

Sam blinked, a lump in his throat. Dean was taking care of them, as usual. Dean would always take care of them. He cleared his throat and hefted Baby casually against his shoulder,

“I was thinking he really needs a name.”

Dean hummed an agreement as he rifled the silverware drawer in search of clean spoons.

“I was thinking that we should name him John Dean.” He held his breath, hopeful.

Dean blinked, eyes on the spoons in his hands, then nodded once and cleared his throat.

“We can call him Jack for short.” he answered softly, before raising his eyes to Sam’s. “None of that JD shit.”

Sam smiled happily back at him.

“Yeah.” And so it was decided. Sam just prayed that because they nicknamed their child after a character in The Incredibles that Jack didn’t eventually live up to that Jack-Jack’s powers. They could only hope, anyway.

**********************************************************

A month later found them settled into a comfortable routine, although they were no closer to solving the mystery of Jack’s mother’s identity, or how she had bypassed the outer wards to leave Jack on the front porch. Dean suspected she had used a human minion to drop the baby off on their doorstep. Sam had acquired a fake birth certificate and genuine vaccination papers and Lenore had been indispensable when it came to helpful advice and baby-sitting. It was the female vampire who’d found the charm that cast a glamour over little Jack, keeping his little ‘extras’ invisible to the human eye, and she cheerfully hand tailored all of Jack’s pants to accommodate his wiggly tail. When Sam had shyly asked her to be his son’s godmother she had been pleased to accept. Her fledglings were scattered now; only she and her consort Leon remained; and she considered the Winchesters a part of her nest, as close to family as she could ever hope to have. After all, how many humans would trust a reformed vampire with the care of their flesh and blood?

Dean took his role as second father seriously; Sam would have none of the secondary role of ‘uncle’ for him. Dean was meant to be a dad. After all, he had practically raised Sam himself, their father too often caught up in his obsessive quest to destroy the demon that had murdered his wife to be a model parent. It was Dean who cleaned and painted the small room that became Jack’s. He had painted the walls a calming sky blue, adding white fluffy clouds and glow-in-the-dark moon and stars to the ceiling. He had sanded and painted a thrift store crib, small bureau and toy chest white and covered them with colorful decals in bright primary colors. There was a protective dream catcher over the crib and the entire room was warded from ceiling to floor. Sam knew for a fact that there was a racecar bed frame being built in Dean’s garage workshop for the day Jack outgrew his crib.

To little Jack, Sam and Dean were DaDa and DeeDee. It worked for him, as he gurgled and babbled happily to himself as he crawled across the kitchen tiles beneath Sam’s feet, playing with his soft toys and cars, and occasionally a overly curious Cannonball. Sam suspected the cats thought Jack some sort of unusual kitten, since he had a tail. So far he showed absolutely no sign of being cursed with Sam’s demonic powers. He was just an intelligent, happy, if a tad unusual baby, growing like a weed and getting into everything. He adored his dads, and they returned that love.

This morning Sam sat at the kitchen table, his favored workspace, although Dean had built him a spacious corner office upstairs, complete with computer desk, shelves, file cabinets and library table. Sam kept his books and reference materials there, but he preferred to work in the sunny kitchen. That way he could talk with Dean as he moved in and around the roadhouse, and keep an eye on Jack. In the evenings when the roadhouse grew lively and sometimes dangerous he carried his son upstairs, safely out of sight. The cobalt blue evil eye charm pinned to the back of Jack’s clothes did its work well, casting a concealing ‘normal’ glamour over the baby, but Sam took no chances. Hunters were by nature paranoid folk, and he didn’t want to have to shoot first and explain later to a suspicious hunter why his child sported horns and a tail.

The roadhouse’s rough clientele had learned early on to remain in the public area of the bar, and not one of them dared start a fight inside the roadhouse, no matter how drunk they were. The back and upstairs rooms were the Winchester’s private living quarters and remained off limits without a direct invitation. If a hunter needed sanctuary to rest or heal up after a rough hunt, there was a small, secluded motel five miles down the road run by the ex-hunter who had sold the brothers the roadhouse. The man’s no-nonsense wife was a skilled physician and more than capable of handling any supernatural medical emergency that came up. It was she who gave Jack his exams and vaccinations and kept her mouth shut about his appearance. Sam had simply explained that his baby had been cursed, that his mother was dead, and demonstrated with holy water and other blessed objects that Jack was harmless and she trusted his word.

Today Sam was working on research for a hunter in Tennessee, who was dealing with a haunted hotel. He was having a hard time concentrating though, his attention often straying through the big kitchen window because Dean was working shirtless outside. His practical sibling was busily repairing one of the solar panels from the roof. It had been damaged in a recent hailstorm, and Dean had hauled it down and laid it across some sawhorses to work on some of the power cells. Jack was napping in his playpen thumb firmly in mouth, rump up, tail twitching lightly in his sleep like a kitten’s. Cannonball snoozed next to him, white paws tucked under his rotund body, purring loudly.

Sam forced his eyes back to his computer screen and away from broad, freckled shoulders. The rumble of a truck engine brought his eyes back to the window. This time a scowl crossed his face at the sight of the petite blonde climbing out of the big Ford. Jo Harvelle remained a petite thorn in Sam’s side. She still had a thing for Dean despite the fact that she had been married and divorced twice. Her first husband retained custody of their kids; her second was a Hunter who was way too fond of his liquor and using his fists in domestic disputes. Ellen had finally chased him off with a rifle and he stayed away. Jo had inherited the rebuilt roadhouse, but she was seldom there.

Jo still hunted, and she was still reckless. She knew enough now to keep her hair out of her face and to leave the clunky, high heeled boots at home while on a hunt, but she was as inept with her knives as ever and her small frame put her at a disadvantage if physical strength was required. She usually partnered up with one or more, hefty, but not so bright Hunters if a job required muscle and Sam suspected that was why she was here now. She had conned Dean in the past to help her on hunts, and she inevitably tried to seduce him when she did. Dean had always laughed about it later, but a jealous Sam didn’t find it amusing at all.

On that note, Sam stood, checking that Jack was still asleep, then headed out of the back door to do some intentional looming over Jo’s personal space. Since Sam’s possession by Meg all those years ago, he knew Jo remained a bit afraid of him and he wasn’t above using that to his advantage if it kept her claws out of Dean. Sure enough, the kittenish smile curving her mouth faded and she uneasily stepped away from Dean as Sam approached. Dean shot him a look and Sam knew he had been busted when Dean hid a smirk behind his shirt, as he pulled it on over his head.

“Hey Jo. Dean why don’t you take a break, you’ve been out here all morning. I’ll make us all some sandwiches. Come on inside where it’s cool.”

“Hi, Sam. Sounds good.” Jo agreed reluctantly.

“Sure Sammy.” Dean agreed amiably. “Let me wash up a bit.” He openly smirked at his brother behind Jo’s back as they headed back in and Sam scowled right back at him and ignored his mouthed “Bitch.” He smacked Dean on the back of the head as they went through the door and ignored his snicker.

Once inside Dean headed down the hall to the bathroom and Jo silently took a seat at the table. When Sam turned back from the counter, a plate of sandwiches in one big hand, and a trio of beer cold bottles held easily in the other, she was staring at Jack, who was waking from his nap, a bemused look on her face. Sam shot a quick look at his son, relaxing when he saw the charm on the baby’s shirt. He forgot about it sometimes, since he was so used to seeing baby Jack as he was. Both he and Dean could easily see past the glamour. He set the plate on the table and handed her a paper napkin.

“Mayo?” he asked politely, passing it over.

Dean appeared and bent over the playpen to scoop up a grinning Jack, who immediately began to coo “Deedeedee” up at him in happy baby babble.

“Hey baby boy, you ready for some lunch?” Dean crooned back at him, tucking his compact little body under one arm like a football as he searched the fridge for a juice bottle. He dropped into the chair next to Sam and popped Jack into his battered high chair and gave him the small bottle.

Sam leaned over and placed a few pieces of sliced bananas and strawberries on the tray as well. Jack was well into semi solid foods now and he loved fruit. Jo watched with a bewildered look on her face.

“Whose baby?” she blurted, and then blushed at Dean’s raised brow. Before Sam could respond, Dean blandly replied, “Ours.” and sank his teeth into his thick ham sandwich with a blissful sigh as Sam watched fondly.

“Oh…” Jo stuttered, eyes on Jack, who was drinking his bottle greedily. She blinked and toyed with her sandwich before turning back to Dean with a determined smile. Dean swallowed the bite he was chewing, and cut her off before she could speak.

“Like I was saying outside, Jo, Paul Gray and DeWayne Taylor would be glad to give you a hand with that werewolf. They both have a personal grudge against ‘em, but I’m out of the game for now. Got more important things to deal with right now.” His eyes were on Jack as he spoke, a soft smile curving his full lips.

Sam said nothing, a pleased smile on his face. It morphed into a frown when Jo spoke, her tone snide, a small sneer on her face.

“It’s not like you to turn down a good hunt Dean. Starting to lose your taste for real action?”

Before Sam could open his mouth, Dean replied, eyes cold, tone turning steely.

“No, Jo. I’ve just gotten choosey about who I hunt with. I want someone capable I trust watching my back, not someone more interested in getting me drunk and into bed afterwards.”

The sneer slid off of Jo’s suddenly hot face, and she stood stiffly, ignoring her food.

“Well. I’ll just be on my way then…” Still she lingered, probably hoping he would change his mind, as he had in the past, coming along to keep her from getting killed.

Dean gave her a little wave, busily wiping Jack’s wet chin with a napkin.

“Good hunting, Jo.” Sam said sweetly, not even bothering to hide his smirk. She gave him a look of pure dislike and marched out the door, the screen slamming behind her.

“Don’t let the door hit you…” Sam muttered, and Dean snorted and let loose with a full belly laugh, which Sam joined in a moment later. Dean took Jo’s untouched food and sat it down for an incredulous Cannonball. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.” he told the cat gruffly. Sam threw his head back and shouted with laughter, Jack joining in with happy ear splitting squeals. Dean just smirked and dug back into his food. They split Jo’s untouched beer. Sam leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

“She’ll probably be back tonight when the bar opens and try again.” he said ruefully. Dean shrugged and swallowed his sip of Corona before answering. “It won’t do her a damned bit of good. I told her years ago I wasn’t interested.”

Sam nodded thoughtfully, then his phone out of his pocket to thumb through the contacts list. “I’ll give DeWayne a call. He likes blondes enough to put up with her, especially if it’s a werewolf hunt.” Sam didn’t like Jo much, but he also didn’t want to have to be the one to explain to Ellen if she got herself killed either.

**********************************************************

Later that night, Sam checked Jack one last time before joining Dean in bed. The noise of the bar below was muted as it was a weeknight and there were now only a few regular patrons lingering for beer and billiards. Nothing Lenore couldn’t handle easily. Sam paused in the doorway. Dean was propped against a mound of pillows, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose as he paged through a classic car magazine. He looked damned sexy, clad only in a pair of gray boxer briefs, wiggling his bare toes and humming tunelessly to himself. The light from his reading lamp haloed his lean body with golden light, and Sam ran his gaze hungrily down his well-muscled torso. Dean raised his head and smirked as Sam unconsciously licked his lips.

“You hungry Sammy? Need a midnight snack?”

Sam growled, a low rumble in his chest, and peeled his tee shirt off over his long, lean torso as he joined his brother in bed. Shirt and magazine went flying over the side as they met in the middle, mouths meeting and clashing. Dean snickered at his lover’s eagerness. “Watch the glasses, dude!” Sam plucked them off his nose, folded them carefully, and then tossed them in the direction of the nearest bedside table, which was his, the one with the alarm clock (which Dean had the tendency to throw against the wall if one dared shrill in his ear) and the pile of books.

The long-suffering mattress creaked as they rolled together, nipping and biting, intent on marking each other. Dean latched onto Sam’s throat and sucked a purple mark that would have done a lamprey proud. Sam retaliated by nibbling along Dean’s lower ribs where he was hideously ticklish, which resulted in his brother giggling like a girl as he twisted, trying to avoid Sam’s sharp teeth. Dean yelped as Sam yanked his briefs off and tossed them over his shoulder. The breathless laughter stuttered to a stop when Sam slid lower, tonguing silky belly skin and burying his nose in wiry curls and flushed, raised petal soft flesh. Sam went to work licking and blissfully suckling swelling flesh, while his brother cradled his head tenderly with strong, calloused hands, moaning half coherent endearments as he arched beneath him.

Sam sucked him briskly to climax, swallowed Dean’s bitter, creamy essence, licked him clean, then kissed his way up the strong thigh, rubbing his cheek against the golden fuzz like a big cat marking its territory. Dean watched him, panting softly, flushed against the pillows and blessed-out from his orgasm, green eyes blown black with pleasure. Sam grinned at him, planted one last kiss on his inner thigh before kneeling up and pushing his own flannel sleep pants down and off his hips. He waggled both brows at his lover, grinning at Dean’s soft chuckle as he produced a tube of slick like a magic trick from under the covers. Then he lifted and hooked Dean’s bad leg gently over his shoulder, easily lifting and pulling his lower body into his lap, opening him up. His big hand was gentle as he slicked his fingers and sought Dean’s small opening and he kept his eyes on his brother’s face as he slicked him for any sign of pain or discomfort. His own breath was unsteady as he watched Dean’s lashes droop and full lips part as he sighed with pleasure. Dean’s thigh trembled and he turned his head to plant a soothing kiss on the heavy muscle—-their lovemaking could go from bliss to pain in seconds if Dean’s damaged leg decided to cramp suddenly and Sam couldn’t bear hurting him.

Dean watched with heavy eyes as Sam withdrew his fingers and lazily began to slick up his own heavy shaft. Sam was hung like a damned horse, every beautiful inch of him in perfect proportion to his lean, tall frame. Years ago when Dean had first given up his virginity to his brother it had been a painful as well as pleasurable experience that had left Dean even more bow-legged then usual, walking and sitting gingerly for days. Now after long practice, he could take him and enjoy the experience, but it still took deliberate relaxation of tight muscles and a boatload of lube. Dean was grateful that Sam was so gentle with him when they made love like this, when they did bust loose every now and then and go at it roughly, all heat and teeth, Dean felt it for days afterwards, but it was worth every twinge to have Sam growl and take him, losing some of that iron control in the process.

Sam slid slowly in, mounting him carefully and sighing at the slick, tight heat that clamped so beautifully around his length as Dean arched beneath him and wrapped strong legs around him, reaching above his head to grasp the heavy wooden slats of the headboard to brace himself as Sam began to thrust into him. The bed springs creaked a steady cadence to their lovemaking and Dean moaned as he realized it was going to be one of those nights—-where Sam kept it just slow and steady enough to drive Dean crazy. He cursed his brother and Sam flashed a wicked leer back at him from under the wings of wild dark hair that fell over his sweaty face. Damn Sam’s stamina anyway!

Dean braced himself and pushed back on Sam’s cock deliberately trying to speed him up. Sam retaliated with a twist of his lithe hips that hit Dean’s sweet spot and made him arch and yowl with pleasure as his brother fucked him lazily, still taking his time. Sam slid his hands under Dean’s thighs and yanked him even closer, his heavy balls smacking his lover’s ass with a vengeance. Dean yowled again and clawed helplessly at Sam’s broad shoulders, white sparks shooting behind his closed eyelids at the pure pleasure searing through his body. He was hard again, his aching cock smashed between them, but too far gone to reach down between them and bring himself off.

Sam flashed white teeth down at him and crooned “That’s it baby, fuck yourself on my cock. Come on Dean, I wanna see you come for me, come on baby.”

He loved watching Dean lose himself to their pleasure and gritted his teeth and fought his own orgasm, eyes locked on his brother’s flushed face. Dean was beautiful like this, thick lashes fluttering over wide, green eyes, white teeth deep in his full lower lip as he fought to keep from crying out again, freckled face rosy. The heavy, mingled musky scent of them rose between them, the surest aphrodisiac that Sam knew and he growled as it flooded his senses. Leaning down he plundered his lover’s mouth with a deep, bass groan and with one final thrust of his hips brought them both over the edge, the mattress bouncing hard beneath them, an added stimulus. Dean whimpered softly as he came, ass clenching hard and milking Sam dry at the same time.

They collapsed, still joined together in a hot, sweaty tangle of limbs. Sam cupped Dean’s flushed, glowing face between both big palms and kissed his mouth tenderly again and again, smiling to himself when Dean sighed against his lips and slid into an exhausted sleep beneath him with a tiny, sleepy murmur, hands curling into relaxed fists against Sam’s skin. He was out like a light, not even waking when Sam slid carefully free of his body and wiped them both clean with a corner of the sheet. He could have gone into the adjoining bathroom for a wet cloth, but he didn’t want to leave the man now curled and held close in his arms.

He wrapped his larger body around Dean protectively. This had been the only way Dean could sleep after Sam carried him from Hell all those years ago, held close, skin to skin, tucked next to his brother’s steadily-beating heart, held safe in strong arms. Later as he healed, Dean had tried to distance himself, but Sam would have none of it. It reassured him as well to hold his brother close against the dark and Dean had been forced to resign himself to a warm Sam blanket. Neither could sleep well now without the other close, and they didn’t bother to resist anymore.

He lay awake a while longer, softly stroking a big hand down Dean’s smooth back, and using his long reach to knead and massage his brother’s still-quivering thigh, easing any cramp in the damaged limb before it could start. Dean’s tousled head was tucked under his chin, and one ear remained tuned to the muffled sounds of the roadhouse below and the calls of the night birds and insects outside their window, as he mentally reviewed and cataloged the events of the day.

Jo had indeed returned to the roadhouse that night, and been disgruntled when DeWayne met her at the bar and introduced himself. She had not been able to refuse the experienced hunter’s offer for help without looking foolish, and they had eventually left together after going over her research at a back table. She had cast one backward glance at Dean, but he had been busy helping Lenore bus tables and hadn’t noticed. Sam smiled to himself in the dark at that. He couldn’t fault her for wanting Dean, but Dean was his and Ms. Joanna Beth was damned lucky Sam hadn’t hexed her into next week. If she ever stepped up her pursuit of his brother he would be tempted to do so. Dean stirred under his arm, turning and rooting into Sam’s armpit and grumbling a bit before settling again, one hand blindly sliding up to cover Sam’s heart. Sam dropped a final kiss on the top of his brother’s head and followed him into sleep.

**********************************************************

The next afternoon Sam sat on a stool at the end of the bar, checking invoices and inventorying the last beer delivery, Jack was perched in his lap, determinedly gnawing on a teething biscuit. He had four wee fangs now and more normal baby teeth coming in, and although they must have pained him at times, he seldom cried. Dean said it was just the Winchester stoicism coming through, but Sam wondered. The front door was open allowing the cool breeze and light in. There had been no early customers so far. Dean was restocking the bar, humming a CCR song under his breath. The ceiling fans hummed quietly. Lenore and Leon would be coming on shift in another couple of hours.

The solitary rumble of a motorcycle outside caught their attention, and a moment later it cut off and the biker stepped silently through the door. Sam’s sense of danger immediately went to red alert, his nape hair prickled, and he shifted in his seat to shield Jack with his body, one big hand tucking his son close, the other sliding under the bar to one of the hidden guns there. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Dean still, grow quiet and lower his head, eyes steady on their visitor. Sam couldn’t see his hands.

The man seemed to immediately sense their unease, and stepped forward where they could see him clearly and held his hands out at his sides, palms up. His clear blue eyes were calm, although shadowed with fatigue. He had tangled honey brown hair, waist length, knotted back under a bandanna in a wind whipped ponytail and was about Dean’s age. He was a slight, handsome, almost pretty man, with a strong, square jaw and a full mouth. He wore faded denim, worn cowboy boots and biker colors. His eyes flicked once to Sam and the baby he held, then to Dean and caught, two predators facing off. He swallowed once and spoke, his voice a husky Texas rasp.

“ My name’s Tanner. Vin Tanner. Josiah Sanchez sent me. If you’re the Winchester brothers I need your help.”

Dean tilted his head and relaxed slightly, though his right hand remained out of sight. Although Tanner had walked past their most powerful Devil’s Trap without flinching, Dean could see that he was carrying at least two guns and a knife. It wouldn’t be the first time a human could be a demon’s pawn and guns killed a man easier than curses. He flicked a glance at the end of the bar, where Sam sat silently, slanted fox eyes watchful in an impassive face and Dean knew without a doubt that his brother had a sawed off shotgun in his hand at ready.

“Sanchez still preaching?” Dean asked.

Tanner snorted. “Josiah ain’t preached in years. Still works for the Sisters though.”

Dean smirked and relaxed further. “He still use that ‘secret formula’ for his roses?”

This time Tanner showed perfect teeth in a white smile. “Won three Gardening awards last year.”

Dean folded both arms on the bar, and nodded to the stool in front of him.  
“Pull up a stool. How can we help?”

Tanner slumped a bit as he stepped forward, accepting the invitation. He lifted a hand to scrub at his dusty face and Dean saw he was bone tired. Silently he poured a shot of Southern Comfort and slid it across the bar. Tanner swallowed the shot in one gulp, not even blinking and met Dean’s gaze square on.

“I think my partner’s got a devil inside him.” he said simply.


End file.
